


Photograph

by Deastrumquodvicis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastrumquodvicis/pseuds/Deastrumquodvicis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two days before Sherlock returns, he, Mycroft, and Molly celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photograph

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by https://twitter.com/Markgatiss/status/315480276736307200

In two days, Sherlock Holmes would no longer be dead.  Both brothers (and accomplice Molly Hooper) had celebrated with a fancy dinner cooked by the elder Holmes himself, dinner surprisingly supplied by the younger.  Molly had arranged the massive table, complete with flowers and napkin rings, even though there were only three eating, Mycroft poured the wine, and Sherlock took several large, deep breaths as he slipped the CD into the massive stereo.

The music poured, the casseroles and ham were finished and ready, fresh rolls and salad ready to be eaten, and then the trio sat.  All were in good spirits.  It was time, finally time to prepare to come home.  The chatter at the table was pleasant and happy, no awkward small talk here.  After the third glass of wine, both the Holmes brothers had started recounting tales of childhood adventure, sharing inside jokes, and, surprisingly, Sherlock became very giggly.  It was nice to see him laughing, Molly thought, after years of hardship and decades of being the cold, distant Sherlock that everyone knew and took getting used to.  Mycroft wasn’t exactly sullen, either, if clearly more used to drunkenness than his little brother.

After dinner, and with Molly tipsy but by far the most sober of the three, they moved to the living room where Molly quickly learned not to play cards with even the most drunken of Holmeses.  Fortunately the only thing being bet on was secrets, and Mycroft won handily.  Sherlock was too drunk or indifferent to care.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said once the cards were put away.  “I want a photograph.”

“No.  ‘M s’pposed t’ be dead, y’ can’t take a picture of me.”

“You won’t be dead in three days.”

“Two,” Molly gently corrected.

“Two.”

“Or three,” Sherlock added.  “’S not like I’ll only be coming back f’r a day b’fore vanishing ‘gain.”

“Either way, I want your photograph.”  Mycroft took out his small point-and-shoot camera, top of the line for its size, and tried to take Sherlock’s picture.  Sherlock threw up his hands in front of him, spoiling the picture.  “Hold still,” Mycroft half-ordered.

“No.  Don’t want you t’ take m’ photograph.”  He blocked the picture again, with the back of his hands.  Again and again he struggled to avoid Mycroft’s lens, and this time it was Molly who started giggling.

“I’m taking your picture whether or not you like it, Sherlock!”

“No.”  The detective stuck his tongue out, prompting an even louder laugh out of Molly.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Don’t make me tickle you.”

“Like you could.”

“Oh, believe me, I can.”  Mycroft lunged with one hand for Sherlock’s side, holding the camera with the other, tickling furiously.  It worked—Sherlock squirmed, single syllables escaping in a childlike plea for Mycroft to stop, but the elder brother wasn’t letting up.  But somehow, still Mycroft was unable to get a picture of Sherlock, and Sherlock grabbed the camera just as the lens shutter snapped.

It was good, it was normal, it was healthy, Molly felt, to see them acting less like the intellectual powerhouse combination they normally presented themselves to be and more like the brothers they actually were.  It didn’t matter if they had been bound by a rough childhood (as Sherlock’s given secret indicated), they were well and truly brothers, giggling drunkenly in a tickle fight.

Now that Sherlock had the camera, there was no point in continuing the discussion, but Sherlock took the camera, smiled at the result of the picture—nothing but his neck and a little bit of chin—and left it.  “You’ve got your photograph, My.  Best you’ll get ‘ntil I’m ‘live.”  But the grin in his eyes gave away his amusement, his happiness.  For the first time in a long time, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were human beings, not robots or statues.


End file.
